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Summary
In his PTSD-scorched psyche, no moral dilemmas arose. The order had never been canceled. Laura was a tool, an accomplice to the terrorist attack. A viable target. A witness. Trash that needed to be cleaned up. According to protocol, he should have crushed her trachea ten minutes ago and burned the room.
And he would eliminate her. Without question.
But not yet. She could die anytime. While she was still alive, while her pulse hammered in hysteria and her body was paralyzed by his presence, he would test on her this new, malfunctioning reflex in his system. To him, it was like field-stripping a new weapon.
Inhale.
The dirty fabric of the mask sucked wetly and deeply into his mouth, clinging to his teeth.
Exhale.